


Unwounded

by Arcanista



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Disability, F/M, Learning to Live with Disability, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Physical Disability, Post-Trespasser, Present Tense, Trespasser DLC, Trespasser Spoilers, complete work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the Crossroads for good, after committing to keep the Inquisition as an arm of the mage-Divine Victoria, Araxie Lavellan dreams of a time she was whole. She dreams of a love she lost. She dreams of finding him again.</p><p>It is not always wise to follow your dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwounded

In her dreams, she is whole. The surgeon keeps telling her this is natural. Natural to imagine she feels things in a hand she now lacks. To reach for things and miss, stumbling. All of this is perfectly ordinary, the surgeon says, even as he marvels at her stump. The skin there is baby-smooth, as if her hand never was.

"How was it done?" he asks one time as he examines her. He probes at her stump, testing for pain. "Maker, if you could replicate this, do you know how many lives we could save? We lose as many men to wounds going bad as we do to battle."

"If I knew, I'd tell you," says Araxie. It's a lie. She's studied enough Fade-magic to have grasped the principles of what Solas did to her. She can't do it, but she thinks she might be able to figure it out.  Even if she were willing to try, she wouldn't tell the surgeon. Not anyone.

"Pity," says the surgeon as he fusses. "What I wouldn't give to have a patient come out of an amputation unwounded."

Araxie flexes her hands, the real one and the ghost, but she keeps her peace. The Inquisitor should not fret, and it is a private hurt besides.

But in her dreams she has two good, strong hands. Clean, free of mark or aberration or Anchor. She climbs trees and draws a bow for the first time since she left her clan.

Ordinary dreams, for someone down one hand and leashed by duty. Cullen affirms the surgeon's words, talks of good men and women under him who have lost limbs in battle, who imagined they could feel them still.

Pity oozes off him as he says it. Araxie thinks-- assumes-- he means well, but Cullen is a soldier. A warrior less her sword hand is as good as Tranquil to her former compatriots. No bladesman, her, but he need only look upon her fumbling, childish right-hand writing for her to embody that inescapable dread.

He doesn't know where to look when they share a room. He settles on her feet. Better than Josephine, who can't bring herself to look anywhere near Araxie. She thinks she's being kind. Never staring, never speaking with even a hint of enthusiasm, always soft and sweet.

"Andraste's tits!" she snaps one day, far more harshly than she intends, not half as harshly as she feels. "I'm not dead! My face is up here, and I will thank you both to stop talking like you're at a funeral around me."

She always swears by Andraste now. At least she still knows, more or less, who and what Andraste was.

Cullen and Josephine both stumble over themselves in a mad rush to be the first to apologize.

"Inquisitor, I--"

"I never meant to--"

It makes Araxie feel no better. She sits down heavily and stares at her remaining hand. The voices fade into the background, washing over her. This too, she must accustom herself to.

Ever since the Anchor, she has become something other than a person to the world. When it was strangers, acquaintances, it was easy enough to think little of it. They needed a symbol, and a hint of solipsism helped make the distance feel less real.

Now her colleagues, her friends look at her, and they see something _other_.

Alone at night, Araxie thinks: _this is how they became gods_. It is a matter of power, of distance, of no longer being a person. She is something like a god herself. She doesn’t feel it.

Better to become a god and not feel it, not act the part than to deny it and play god with the world.

She loved a god once. Perhaps she does still. The man is a monster, but when his voice enfolds her, it is so hard to think. When she remembers his lips on hers, her blood runs cold and her knees go weak. The heat boils up from lower still to churn in her stomach.

Better to be loved than feared, Araxie has always believed, but it never occurred before now that the two were not mutually exclusive. Her throat works silently in the night, closing at the memory of warmth.

She lingers over her face in the mirror, fingers touching the fine-etched lines of vallaslin. She was proud of them once, proud to carve the staves for the dead, proud to give comfort to the dying.

Has she damned her people with her adamance that whatever they were, the markings no longer signified slavery? The unfaltering worship of these ancient mage-kings, or the crystallization of the Dalish into a new people, a thing truly unlike Elvhenan of old... either of these things might catalyze the god called Solas.

What did he truly see when he looked her in the face? A woman marked as the property of his ancient enemy. And she too is a cripple to him. Has always been something less than a person. Possessed of worth because of _his_ doing.

Andraste, but she misses him. Andraste, but she hates him.

In her dreams, she is alone, and all is right with the world. The scent of fresh loam fills her nostrils, warm and nostalgic. It is summer when she sleeps and a sheen of sweat sticks her tunic to her skin.

Araxie walks the forest with no destination in mind, but pauses when she comes upon a stream. The water is swift and clear, tiny silver fish dancing close to the bottom. A squirrel darts up a tree on the other side, glancing her way with only a moment's curiosity.

She hesitates, then chuckles at her late-learned modesty. No one around, anyway, not for miles. She grasps the bottom of her tunic with both hands and lifts it off. It lands by the water's edge, followed suit by her trousers. The thick summer air collects on her skin, inviting her down into the cool water.

Something gives her pause, sends goose pimples rising on her bare flesh. Araxie looks around, and sees nothing but a magpie, looking down at her from a branch above. Just a bird and nothing more.

She steps into the stream and gasps at the cold. In this heat, it's perfect, washing away the sweat.

The current is quick against her legs, coiling around them. The pressure is almost a caress, edging higher and higher. The wind rustles in the trees above.

Araxie awakens, one-handed and shivering, with fire in her belly. Normal, to dream such things. Normal, to fantasize herself a new hand. Normal, to imagine a stream touching her more intimately than any man has in half a year.

She fumbles in the dark, reaches for the cold lump of crystal that sits on her bedstand. Araxie squeezes it tight, whispers, "Dorian?"

An eternity before she hears his response, bleary with sleep and the lingering effects of drink. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I gave you that crystal, my friend.”

Easier to talk with him. Maybe because he can’t look at her. It was awkward before he left, but the loss was so new then that everything was awkward. “Hush, Dorian. How’s my favourite Magister?”

Dorian catches on ably. Breezing over problems is old hat for him. “I couldn’t say yet. I’ll ask her for you when I reach Qarinus.”

“Oh, stop it,” says Araxie, but her laugh is genuine. “Come on, how are the roads treating you? Better than when it was just us, I hope?”

“The weather is nicer, I’ll allow,” sends Dorian, along with a faint rustle that Araxie assumes is him making himself more comfortable. “And there’s fewer swamps. Why did you always insist on bringing me whenever you were headed to a swamp?”

“Because with you around,” Araxie says, “I knew that no matter how much I hated it, things could be worse.”

“You wound me,” says Dorian. “But tell me, how are you holding up?”

Araxie sighs, lets her head fall back on her pillow. “It’s... rough. Leliana’s just about the only person who doesn’t act like I’m some sort of invalid. I wish I could just be angry at them, but, I. They’re _trying_. They just, they just don’t know what to do. It’s terrible, but I’ll be so glad when Cassandra leaves. She’s always trying to fetch things for me, and I-- Look, I need to learn to write all over again, certainly, but it’s not, I don’t need to be propped up by pillows all the time.”

A long pause. Araxie squeezes the crystal while she waits. Finally, Dorian responds, “I’m sorry, Araxie. Truly. I wish I knew what to tell you.”

"So do I," says Araxie. She closes her eyes, but maintains the connection. Something occurs to her when she yawns, open-mouthed. "Dorian, when you get settled in, can you do me a favour?"

"Of course. Just say the word."

"There's been a lot more study of Dreaming in Tevinter than here in the south, hasn't there?" Araxie asks. "I'd like if you could send me something on the subject."

"That's a very broad subject," says Dorian. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

Araxie chews her lower lip, alone in the dark. No, she would sound mad if she let go now. She refuses to worry Dorian even more. "Just the basics to start, I think. I trust your opinions. It's just something to distract me."

Dorian takes a moment to answer, but he doesn't pry. "Of course. I'll find a few introductory texts for you. Well, introductory as far as the subject matter goes. It should still be substantial enough for you to chew on."

"Perfect," says Araxie. "It should be just the thing I need. I should let you get back to sleep now. Thank you. For talking with me. You're a true friend."

“I’m not so sure of that now,” Dorian says. “Not at this hour; I’m definitely thinking some unflattering things.”

“Hush, hush. Thank you again, Dorian.” Araxie gives the crystal one final squeeze. She reaches over, holding it just above the bedstand.

“Any time, Araxie,” says Dorian. “Keep in touch.”

When Dorian’s presence vanishes, Araxie lets the crystal drop. The air in her bedroom feels thick, lulling her back toward sleep. She hesitates and looks up to the ceiling, squinting through the darkness.

Araxie sits up. She’s done with sleep tonight. She slips out of bed and reaches for her robe. On her third try, she gets it on, even gets the belt loosely tied. She pads toward her desk and shakes the lamp on the edge. Enough oil left to last until sunrise. She touches fire to the wick and settles in to go over her paperwork.

She doesn’t bother writing anything. Not on official work, not right now. But there’s so much coming in that she needs to review. It never even occurred when she gave the order that reducing the scope of the Inquisition would require even more paperwork than just running it. Her role in this part is mostly just signatures, but even so, best to review every page. Even more so now, with the issues of security.

Araxie reads until the lamp flickers out, and sunlight through the windows makes her bleary eyes water. By the time her secretary and Leliana arrive to give her the new day’s reports, she will be ready for them.


	2. Unbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one should dance with the Dread Wolf in a dream. Araxie dances with the man she still loves despite everything.

The Divine’s gift is the soul of thoughtfulness. A small jar of salve, with a wide, easy-to-grip lid. Easy to handle one-handed. Thick and luxurious, spreading nicely out against her stump when she works it in with her fingers. A gift with an unspoken, two-pronged message. A kindness and a caution: that is Divine Victoria’s way.

“Take down a letter to the Most Holy,” says Araxie to her secretary, toying with the jar. “Um, start with the usual: greetings and whatnot. Tell her I very much appreciate her gift and that it finds me quite well. I am doing better, truly. Make sure you use that ‘truly’. Ah, tell her my schedule’s full-up this month but perhaps we could meet next month? I’d very much enjoy the chance. Even if I do wish she’d tell me what the cheese actually _does_. Looking forward to it, my people should contact yours, et cetera. Let me have a look when you’re done so I can sign it?”

She waits for the secretary can finish, toying with an orange peel as she listens to the scratch of pen on page. Nearly curled, all in one piece. She used to be able to do simple things like that all on her own. Now the oranges come peeled, sections all splayed out on a plate.

Her secretary finishes and presents the page to Araxie, passing it off with a flourish. She squints as she reads it, moving her lips as she goes over the neatly handwritten; she’d never fully gotten the hang of reading silently. But everything looks in order, so she picks up her pen, all clumsy in her right hand, and thrusts it into the inkwell. Black ink splashes up past the nib, damping her hand. She lets it be for now, and scrawls her name at the bottom of the letter, droplets of ink freckling the page around her malformed letters.

It is the perfect response to the Divine Victoria: a letter written in another’s hand, a tacit acknowledgement of support, while her own writing shows the flash of the deeply personal, her very _need_  for this support. It’s a touch the Divine will appreciate.

Araxie pushes the letter away for the secretary to blot; the sealing can come later. Easier to do the day’s letters all at once. She has a _system_  worked out. The notion leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She blots her inky hand on a cloth she has on the desk. Laying there in a heap, so she doesn’t need help to do it. She gets a lot of ink on her hand these days.

“If that’s all for now,” she says, “then I’m going to take some air.” She doesn’t wait for a response, just rises and heads for the balcony, taking a slice of orange with her.

The wind is bitterly cold this high up, no matter what time of year it is. She shivers, as the orange bursts into bitter juice in her mouth. Sweet Andraste, but she’d rather be sleeping. Rather be dreaming, be anywhere but here, be anyone but her.

It’s probably a bad idea. A bad idea on any number of levels. This is what she is now, and she should not be chasing some fantasy self, some wisp of being, trying to capture a dream of who she ought to be. Should not be denying her own existence and replacing it with something _other_.

But in a dream, she can still love herself.

She settles her fingers on the railing, letting the clinging taste of orange pith fade from her tongue. She’s still alive. At least she’s still alive, and she still has work to do, and she can throw herself into that.

And that works. It really works well enough to carry her through most of her days. Not joyfully, but she makes do.

Her nights are another story entirely. At night, she remembers joy. She remembers sweetness. She remembers crisp air and quiet forests. Araxie sits in the dirt and runs her fingers through it, smiling at the smells of her childhood. With her good left hand, she beckons birds, lets them perch on her fingertips and sings to them. She reaches out to the foxes and wolves she sees in the distance, but those at least run away from her.

But sometimes, she dreams of Halamshiral, or a place much like it: it seems as though the palace is trying to be something else, but it cleaves to the familiar forms, the places she’s spent so much time in.

The ballroom is full as at any dreary event she’s been to, but any time she tries to face one of the masked guests, they turn away from her. Araxie walks circles around a woman in a golden silk dress, but she always shows only her back.

Araxie gives up after the effort makes her dizzy, and picks up her skirts, striding to the centre of the floor. She’s waiting for someone, but where are they?

The breath on her neck is warm, regular. “Vhenan,” is whispered into her ear. She starts to turn, but hands squeeze her shoulders, keep her in place. “No. No, don’t let this moment end. Savour this. Savour this place. Savour where we are right now.”

Araxie relaxes into the familiar arms behind her, knees threatening to give way. “Halamshiral?” she asks. Her throat constricts tightly around a desperate lump in her throat.

All at once she’s pushed to stand on her own two feet. “Ah. I forget how you would see-- yes. Halamshiral, then. Let that be where we stand, where we have at least our memories. Good ones, I hope. Dance with me?”

No one should dance with the Dread Wolf in a dream. Araxie says, her voice still choked, “Yes.”

Back to chest, he leads her through steps she echoes flawlessly, even without knowing them. Her arms move gracefully, and she knows that these, too, are parts of the dance. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Solas’ hands touching her arms, but when she tilts her head to look, she feels her gaze guided away.

“Do not, vhenan,” he says to her, his breath in her ear, on her neck. “Trust me. You do trust me, don’t you? Even after everything?”

Her heart pounds, once, a solitary drumbeat, and then all is as it should be. “Yes,” says Araxie. “I do. Of course I do. Always. But if I could look at you-- if I could see you, could be with you, I could help you.”

“You are helping, vhenan.” Solas’ breath clings to her skin, drifting down her dress. “You cannot imagine how much of a comfort you are to me. I treasure you-- treasure these moments. Please, do not take them from us.”

 _Moments?_  But a pleasant whiff of perfume from one of the nearby dancers turns her thoughts away from the notion. “Very well, vhenan,” she says. “I will-- I do trust you.”

The dance whirls her around in a circle, skirts flaring outward around her. “Good,” he says. “This is for your benefit too, you know.”

Of course it is. Solas always knows what the best course of action is-- even if she hasn’t always been able to follow it, or if the truth only became clear in retrospect. But there’s always been wisdom in all his actions. She smiles, even though he won’t be able to see.

She feels safe, for the first time in ages, dancing here for hours with the man she loves.

Somewhere, a bell tolls midnight. Around her, the partygoers start lifting their masks. They still don’t face her, even as her dance with Solas whirls her around the room. But isn’t midnight the time to look at last, to see who you’ve been dancing the night away with?

Araxie turns swiftly to try and face Solas--

And then the room is empty, cobwebbed and dusty, and she is utterly, utterly alone. Her gown is all rags, grey and dull and hanging loosely on her frame. Where is this place? It looks nothing like Halamshiral, but she doesn’t recognize the architecture at all.

She walks through the ruined ballroom until she finds a cracked, dusty mirror. She lifts her right sleeve and rubs the dust away, looks at her exhausted face blinking back at her. But something feels dreadfully strange about everything-- how did she end up in a place like this? What was she doing here? Her legs ache, like she’s been standing for hours, but she can’t recall where.

She lifts her left hand to wipe her sweaty bangs away from her face, and she misses, a rush of air that should be a hand whipping over her skin.

This is the first time she’s been missing the hand in a dream.


	3. Unhealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A head vanishes beneath the waves.

Araxie’s dreams are choked with dust. She wanders, lost and alone through ruins and dead forests: nothing lives there, and the distant scent of mold fills her nostrils. Cobwebs drift in her face, clinging there. She feels her left hand, alive and whole, but when she reaches up with it to clear the air in front of her face, only air moves beyond her wrist.

Her footsteps should echo on the broken stone floors in an ancient hallway, but she sinks in dust up to her ankles. She sees someone facing away from her in the distance, so far away they’re tiny. She knows who it is.

She picks up her feet higher, pulling them out of the dust to try and press forward. Her hand reaches out ahead of herself, flailing and reaching for him every step of the way.

He never turns, never gets any closer, no matter how long she walks. Whenever she opens her mouth to speak, the dust in the air threatens to choke her. But Araxie knows that if she just keeps walking, just keeps trying, she can reach him, somehow. She can get through. She knows it.

Araxie stumbles, tripping on something deep in the dust. As she falls forward, she reaches out with her one good arm, and she finally cries out successfully, utters a single name--

\-- She awakens alone in her bed, dawn staining through the windows. Birdsong drifts inside, along with the draft that never did quite get fixed.

“I was so close,” Araxie says into her empty bedroom. The cold morning air drives her deeper under her blankets, and she sighs. She can still taste the dust in her mouth.

But there’s no sleeping again after a nightmare like that. She sits up fully, then slips out of bed. She fumbles into some clothes, not sure if she’s getting everything on straight. She’d never realized that dressing yourself was a thing you could take for granted before now.

She gets herself presentable, at least, up until she has to deal with shoes. Then she laughs to herself. Look at her now, used to shoes like some sort of shem. She doesn’t need them. Araxie steps off the carpet and winces at the cold stone floor. Maybe she should try and get some sort of shoe on.

No, no. She’s the _Inquisitor_ , for Andraste’s sake. She’s the Inquisitor, and she’s not going to be laid low by a stupid cold floor. She presses on, heading downstairs. It’s not so bad when she actually gets out of her bedroom and onto the wooden staircase down to the great hall. It’s practically pleasant, even.

Down and around, Araxie heads to the kitchens. They’re always warm, always with _someone_ working there. At this hour, the bakers should be busy doing their… baking. She never did learn what all was involved with that. And there’s always cooks down there, too, aren’t there?

The cook’s assistant doesn’t recognize Araxie until she looks at her absence of hand. “Inquisitor!” she says, stumbling into a curtsey. “Um, what brings you here, your worship?”

Behind them, the cook glares, then goes back to barking orders at other assistants. One baker busily kneads a thick glob of dough. Araxie feels dreadfully out of place; everything down here is foreign to her. She coughs, when she realizes she’s been staring. “Just a cup of tea?” she says. “Something with a little kick to it? Nothing fancy, please. If you’ve got anything already made, that would be wonderful.”

The assistant (why doesn’t Araxie know her name? She should know her name) looks awkwardly to the cook, who makes a sharp gesture toward a heavy kettle sitting to the back of a stove. “Uh, yes, your worship,” says the assistant, making for the kettle. “We’ve just got this on right now, that we drink ourselves. S-surely you don’t want--”

“That will be fine,” says Araxie, her skin crawling. Is it the hand? Is that why she’s making the help so nervous? She wriggles a little on her feet. “I’ll just have it black. Is it all right if I take it upstairs with me?”

A heavy earthenware mug is thrust out toward her. “Of course, your worship,” says the assistant. “Whatever you like.”

Araxie takes the tea and flees the kitchen. Only in the stairwell does she stop and try to drink it, mouth rebelling at the tannic stuff. Over-brewed to the point you could stand a spoon in it, and bitter as a lover jilted at the altar, so hot it burns the tip of her tongue. Well, it’ll wake her up at least?

She carries the tea with her, making her way back to her chambers. There’s no way to it quietly; doors creak and groan as she tries to get through them. Somehow it feels louder than they did on her way down. Probably just her imagination.

About halfway up the stairs, the wooden part leading up to her tower, her foot lands oddly, and catches against the edge of a stair. The sharp feeling of a splinter driving beneath her big toenail sends her arms flailing wide, hot tea splattering everywhere.

She releases the cup somewhere high over her head and the last she sees of it is the handle sailing down past the railing of the stairs.

Limping, fighting back tears, Araxie returns to her bed.

* * *

The only thing to make the day anything other than a total loss is the arrival of a package from Tevinter, addressed to her personally. Inside are gifts from Dorian’s friend Maevaris: a small collection of chocolates, a lovely necklace of iridescent cut crystals, and a painted silk scarf.

And then there’s a slim volume with a note from Dorian inside the cover.

_My friend, this is a little more basic than you had hoped for, I think. But it was the first thing I found, and I thought I’d might as well send it on. It should do as a primer for the subject, though I think you’ll find most of the principles similar to what we’ve been over together in our own work. I’ll send you more as I find it._

_Please take care of yourself as you review the text of this book. Don’t try anything you’re not absolutely certain of. Dreams are far less knowable than the Fade: so much of what we know of them is only surmise. What works within the Fade-- even the Fade seen in a dream-- might not inside a true dream._

_As always: you have my ear at any time, Amica._

Araxie frowns as she reads over the letter. That much should be obvious, shouldn’t it? She hardly needs Dorian mother henning over her. She’s just _reading_ , after all.

She curls deeper in bed and sets to the book. She drinks better cups of tea, with their delicate flavours still intact. Her toe throbs, but it calms down as the day goes on.

The book is painfully introductory, at the start, geared towards Dreamers still early in even their normal magical study. Araxie sees shortcuts around all the processes detailed, things she learned long ago in her own studies of the rifts and the Fade.

Why had she never bothered to look into Dreaming before? _This_ is her field, truly-- she is far more at ease even with this book for nearly-children than she is at a great council.

She starts skimming once she hits things that seem familiar to her. It’s all just theory, and it’s nothing she doesn’t really know already. Dorian’s next books will be more interesting, she’s certain.

But there are some practical exercises inside the book, she notices. Most of them are basically the same as other things she’s learned to focus her will, but there’s a greater focus on relaxation. Steps to create calm, guide a Dreamer to proper restful sleep. There’s a few others, practice for students and their teacher to learn to accustom themselves to the dreams and their perverse logic.

There’s one, Araxie thinks academically, that doesn’t necessarily require two knowing participants. The teacher’s part, skimmed over, is to remain out of reach of the Dreamer, and the student’s is to give chase, folding and working the dream to catch the teacher, as they try to confound the student.

Now, of course, Araxie is no Dreamer. So it’s not like this is really more than a theoretical consideration. But, she does seem to find herself in strange dreams that are definitely more dream than Fade, lately. And wouldn’t it only help her if she came prepared with the knowledge of a few tricks?

Part of the trick to it is holding two disparate notions in your head at once, she reads, which is foundational to a lot of tricky magical spells, so she feels confident there. It’s supposed to be harder in a dream, but, well. She’s been doing this for a few years.

The first is keeping focus on your quarry: their true essence, not merely what they appear as in a dream. With that in mind, says the book, you can always ensure you are oriented correctly, will not be confounded by what guides they may take.

Probably trickier than it sounds, but it seems like the sort of challenge that interests Araxie. And how long has it been since anything’s truly interested her?

The other thing to do is to always imagine a cord, a tether behind you. Silver is apparently traditional, but Araxie can’t shake the mental image of a big ball of yarn unraveling behind her. This seems to be to ensure that no matter how the route twists and turns, you can always find your way back, to try other routes, to return to wakefulness.

The instructor should be keeping track of the student throughout this exercise, ensuring that if they lose sight of either focus that they not be lost forever in the dream.

The book makes it quite clear too, that this is a very real possibility: with a weak focus on the quarry’s essence, the Dreamer could potentially lose themself forever, chasing blind alleys or growing stuck in place. A too-weak tether could be severed, through malice or ignorance, and without help coming, that could leave the Dreamer with no signpost back to wakefulness.

The book implies that these problems are potentially quite permanent.

Good thing she’s not a Dreamer.

* * *

Araxie’s dreams are choked with ash. She wanders, lost and alone through ruins and dead forests: nothing lives there, and the distant scent of mold fills her nostrils. Her left hand is absent, a memory she can no longer hold onto.

Her footsteps fade into silence as she treads over centuries-dead moss, but each time she sees solid ground, she sinks in dust up to her ankles. Someone is facing away from her in the distance, so far away they’re tiny. She knows who it is. She meditates on him: meditates on every aspect of him she knows. Not the physical, but other things: his curiosity, the temper behind his long patience, his unknowable sorrows. His love of learning and his deft skill at games of chance.

She thinks of his love for _her_ and holds on tightly.

The world twists and she wears a golden dress, walking through a gleaming hallway. Araxie’s mental ball of yarn unravels further, never shrinking, always guiding her home. Dust clings to the walls here, not the floors, and catches in the air, making it harder to breathe. Her hand reaches out ahead of herself, trying to clear some of this dusty miasma away from her lungs.

Araxie pauses to look at one of the walls, lifts her left hand, whole and true-- had it ever been anything else--? and wipes at it. Sees the mirror underneath, sees her determined face, bare of mark or line looking back at her.

Yes. This is right. Focused forward and back, Araxie redoubles her efforts, striding forward to the person at the end of the hallway.

He never turns, never gets any closer, no matter how long she walks. Whenever she opens her mouth to speak, the dust in the air threatens to choke her. But Araxie knows that if she just keeps walking, just keeps trying, she can reach him, somehow. She can get through. She knows it.

Araxie stumbles, tripping on something deep in the dust. As she falls forward, she reaches out with her one good arm, and she finally cries out successfully, utters a single name--

\-- and he turns, and he catches her in his arms. “Vhenan,” he says, looking down at her face, stroking her cheek, as if transfixed by something beautiful. But as he helps her to her feet, his face turns sorrowful. “You should not be here.” One hand raises as if to dismiss her.

“I’ve found you, finally,” says Araxie. “I’m not going anywhere. And if you send me away, well, _I’ll find you again._ ”

A single tremor grips the Dread Wolf’s shoulders, and he shutters his face against a wave of pain that crosses it. “So be it then,” he says, and pulls her close in his arms. “Let us be together again, vhenan.”

And he reaches back behind her, and brushes aside a useless cobweb, the thing that drags her down, that holds her back, that doesn’t matter at all anymore.

Finally, they’re together again.


End file.
